'I was thinking of asking you to take a walk.'
'Well'--still that smile--'why don't you?'
But he was still in a daze, and pressed stupidly on.
'It's a fine evening. And the moon'll be coming up.'
'I'll get my sweater,' she said quietly, and went out to the hall.
She was just turning away from the hall closet with the sweater--he, hat
and stick in hand, was fighting back the memory of how Senator Watt
had marched stiffly to that same closet--when Madame Watt came down the
stairs, scowling intently, still breathing hard.
She saw them; came toward them; stood, pursing her lips, finally forcing
a sort of smile.
'Oh, howdadoo!' she remarked, toward Henry.
Her black eyes focused pointedly on him. And while he was mumbling a
greeting, she broke in on him with this:--'I didn't know you were here.
Did you just come?' Henry's eyes lowered. Then, as utter silence fell,
the colour surging to his face, he raised them. They met her black,
alarmed stare. He felt that he ought to lie about this, lie like a good
one. But he didn't know how.
Slowly, all confusion, he shook his head.
During a long moment they held that gaze, the vigorous, strangely
interesting woman of wealth and of what must have been a violent past,
and the gifted, sensitive youth of twenty. When she turned away, they
had a secret.
'We thought of taking a little walk,' said Cicely.
Madame moved briskly away into the back parlour, merely throwing back
over her shoulder, in a rather explosive voice: 'Have a good time!'
The remark evidently struck Cicely as somewhat out of character. She
even turned, a little distrait, and looked after, her aunt.
Then, as they were passing out the door, Madame's voice boomed after
them. She was hurrying back through the hall.
'By the way,' she said, with a frowning, determined manner, 'we are
having a little theatre party Saturday night. A few of Cicely's friends.
Dinner here at six. Then we go in on the seven-twenty. I know Cicely'll
be glad to have you. Informal--don't bother to dress.'
'Oh, yes!' cried Cicely, looking at her aunt.
'I--Im sure I'd be delighted,' said Henry heavily.
Then they went out, and strolled in rather oppressive quiet toward the
lake.
There was a summer extravaganza going, at the Auditorium. That must be
the theatre. They hadn't meant to ask him, of course. Not at this late
hour. It hurt, with a pain that, a day or so back, would have filled
Henry's thoughts. But Cicely's smile, as she stood by the table,
nibbling a chocolate, the poise of her pretty head--the picture stood
out clearly against a background so ugly, so unthinkably vulgar, that it
was like a deafening noise in his brain.
4
He glanced sidewise at Cicely. They were walking down Douglass Street.
Just ahead lay the still, faintly shimmering lake, stretching out to the
end of the night and beyond. Already the whispering sound reached their
ears of ripples lapping at the shelving beach. And away out, beyond the
dim horizon, a soft brightness gave promise of the approaching moonrise.
He stole another glance at Cicely. He could just distinguish her
delicate profile.
He thought: 'How could she ask me? They wouldn't like it, her friends.
Mary Ames mightn't want to come. Martha Caldwell, even. She's been
nice to me. I mustn't make it hard for her. And she mustn't know about
tonight. Not ever.'
Then a new thought brought pain. If there had been one such scene, there
would be others. And she would have to live against that background,
keeping up a brave face before the prying world of Sunbury. Perhaps she
had already lived through something of the sort. That sad look about her
mouth; when she didn't know you were looking.
They had reached the boulevard now, and were standing at the railing
over the beach. A little talk had been going on, of course, about this
and that--he hardly knew what.
He clenched his fist again, and brought it down on the iron rail.
'Oh,' he broke out--'about Saturday. I forgot. I can't come.'
'Oh, but please----'
'No. Awfully busy. You've no idea. You see Humphrey Weaver and I bought
the _Gleaner_. I told you, didn't I? It's a big responsibility--getting
the pay-roll every week, and things like that. Things I never knew
about before. I don't believe I was made to be a business man. Lots of
accounts and things. Hump's at it all the time--nights and everything.
You see we've got to make the paper pay. We've _got_ to! It was losing,
when Bob McGibbon had it. People hated him, and they wouldn't advertise.
And now we have to get the advertising back.' If we fail in that, we'll
go under, just as he did...'
Words! Words! A hot torrent of them! He didn't know how transparent he
was.
She stood, her two hands resting lightly on the rail, looking out at the
slowly spreading glow in the east.
'I'm so glad aunt asked you,' she said gravely. 'I wanted you to come. I
want you to know. Won't you, please?'
He looked at her, but she didn't turn. There was more behind her words.
Even Henry could see that. He had been discussed. As a problem. But she
didn't say the rest of it.
Then his clumsy little artifice broke down, and the crude feeling rushed
to the surface.
'You know I mustn't come!' he cried.
'No,' said she, with that deliberate gravity. 'I don't know that. I
think you should.'
'I can't. You don't understand. They wouldn't like it, my being there.
They talk about me. They don't speak to me, even.'
'Then oughtn't you to come? Face them? Show them that it isn't true?'
'But that will just make it hard for you.'
She was slow in answering this; seemed to be considering it. Finally she
replied with:--
'I don't think I care about that. People have been awfully nice to me
here. I'm having a lovely time. But it isn't as if I had always lived
here and expected to stay for the rest of my life. My life has been
different. I've known a good many different kinds of people, and I've
had to think for myself a good deal. No, I'd like you to come. If you
don't come---don't you see?--you're putting me with them. You're making
me mean and petty. I don't want to be that way. If--if I'm to see you at
all, they must know it.'
'Perhaps, then,' he muttered, 'you'd better not see me at all.'
'Please!'
'Well, I know; but--'
'No. I want to see you. If you want to come. I love your stories. You're
more interesting than any of them.'
At this, he turned square around; stared at her. But she, very quietly,
finished what she had to say. 'I think you're a genius. I think you're
going to be famous. It's--it's exciting to see the way you write
stories.... Wait, please! I'm going to tell you the rest of it. Now that
we're talking it out, I think I've got to. It was aunt who didn't want
to ask you. She likes you, but she thought--well, she thought it might
be awkward, and--and hard for you. I told her what I've told you, that
I've either got to be your friend before all of them or not at all. And
now that she has asked you--don't you see, it's the way I wanted it all
along.'
There wasn't another girl in Sunbury who could have, or would have, made
quite that speech.
She looked delicately beautiful in the growing light. Her hair was a
vignetted halo about her small head.